Awake, he could not believe Takeshi was dead. He heard his footfall, his voice, and saw his shape everywhere. Takeshi seemed embodied in every object in the house. There he had sat, this bowl he had drunk from, this straw horse was one he played with years ago. Every corner of the garden bore his imprint-the street, the riverbank, the whole city.

Seeking some activity to distract him, he thought he should check on the horses now that Takeshi was no longer there to care for them, and found that Mori Hiroki had taken it upon himself to oversee them. They grazed unconcerned; he was relieved to see the black-maned gray still there, Raku, who would forever remind him of his brother, and the black colt from the same mare as his own horse, Kyu.

“Where is the bay?” he said to Hiroki.

“Takeshi took him,” Hiroki replied. “He made a joke about it, saying Raku was too recognizable, and Kuri was a better disguise.”

“Then we will never see the horse again,” Shigeru said. “If he survived, someone will have stolen him by now.”

“It’s a shame. Such a clever horse! And Takeshi had taught him so much.” Hiroki continued to stare toward the horses while he said, “His death is a terrible loss.”

“So many of us are gone,” Shigeru said. So many of the boys who fought each other with stones.

TWO WEEKS LATER, when he was beginning to recover some of his physical strength, Chiyo came saying a messenger had arrived from Yamagata.

“I told him to give me the letter, but he insists he’ll put it into no one’s hands but yours. I told him Lord Otori did not receive grooms, but he won’t go away.”

“Did he give his name?”

“Kuroda, or something like that.”

“Send him to me,” Shigeru said. “Bring wine and see no one disturbs us.”

The man came to the room, knelt before him, and greeted him. His voice was uneducated, the accent that of Yamagata. Chiyo was right: he looked like a groom, possibly once a foot soldier, with an old scar across his left forearm, but Shigeru knew he was from the Tribe, knew he would be tattooed beneath the clothes in the Kuroda fashion, as Shizuka had told him, could no doubt dissemble his features and appear in many different disguises.

“Muto Kenji sends you his greetings,” Kuroda said. “He has written to you.” He took the scroll from the breast of his jacket and gave it to Shigeru. Shigeru unrolled it and recognized the seal, the old way of writing “fox.”

“He has also told me everything he could find out, and I myself already had some details,” Kuroda said, his face and voice expressionless. “You may ask me any questions when you have finished reading.”

“Were you there?” Shigeru asked at once.

“I was in Yamagata. I knew of the incident as soon as it happened. But no one knew until some days later that the murdered man was Lord Takeshi. He was in traveling clothes: everyone else with him perished inside the house. It seems the Tohan surrounded it and set fire to it. Your brother escaped the flames but was cut down outside.”

Shigeru read the letter, his face muscles clenched, saving other questions for afterward, when he might be able to speak without weeping. When he had finished reading, silence fell on the room. The cicadas droned; the river ebbed.

Finally, Shigeru said calmly, detachedly, “Kenji writes that there was a fight earlier, outside an inn?”

“Lord Takeshi was provoked and insulted by a group of low-rank Tohan warriors. He was not drunk, but everyone else had been drinking heavily. The Tohan often act in this way in Yamagata: they swagger around like conquerors and always end up insulting the Otori and-forgive me-Lord Shigeru in particular. Lord Takeshi bore it as long as was humanly possible, but inevitably a fight broke out-six or seven of them against one. After Lord Takeshi had killed two of them, the rest ran away.” He was silent for a moment. “It seems he was an excellent swordsman.”

“Yes,” Shigeru said briefly, remembering the strength and grace of the young man.

“He returned to the house where he was staying. He was with a young woman, a very beautiful girl, only seventeen years old, a singer.”

“I suppose she is dead too?”

“Yes, and her entire family. The Tohan said they were Hidden, but everyone in Yamagata knows they were not.”

“The men were definitely Tohan?”

“They wore the triple oakleaf and came from Inuyama. They forbade anyone to move Lord Takeshi’s body-no one knew who he was, but a merchant from Hagi who was visiting Yamagata recognized him. He spread the word, went to the castle himself, and demanded the body be released to him. It has been very hot this summer. Lord Takeshi needed to be buried. The merchant took the body immediately to Terayama. The murderers, of course, were aghast: they had had no idea they had killed Lord Otori’s brother. They surrendered themselves to the lord at the castle, pleading only to be allowed to kill themselves honorably, but the lord advised them to return to Inuyama and inform Iida themselves.”

“Iida has punished them?”

“Far from it. He is reported to have received the news with pleasure.” Kuroda hesitated. “I don’t want to offend Lord Otori…”

“Tell me what he said.”

“His exact words were, ‘One less of those Otori to worry about. Too bad it wasn’t the brother.’ Far from punishing them, he rewarded them and now looks on them with favor.” Kuroda pressed his lips firmly together and stared at the floor.

Rage seemed to lick his gut with its molten tongue. He welcomed it, for it dried up grief and tears instantaneously. Rage would sustain him now, rage and his craving for revenge.

His uncles’ behavior did nothing to dull his rage. They expressed their profound regret for Takeshi’s death and for his mother’s, as well as their deep concern for his health. When Shigeru demanded to know what their response would be and when they would seek apologies and recompense from Iida, they were first evasive and finally adamant. No demands would be made. Takeshi’s death was an unfortunate accident. Lord Iida could not be held responsible.

“We do not need to remind you of your brother’s recklessness in the past. He has been involved in many brawls,” Shoichi said.

“When he was younger,” Shigeru said. “Most young men make similar mistakes.” Indeed, Masahiro’s oldest son, Yoshitomi, had only recently been involved in an ugly fight in the town in which two boys had died. “I believe Takeshi was settling down.”

“Maybe you are right,” Masahiro said with palpable insincerity. “Alas, we will never know. Let the dead rest in peace.”

“To tell you the truth, Shigeru,” Shoichi said, watching his nephew carefully, “negotiations are under way for a formal alliance with the Tohan. We would agree to establish legally the current borders and support the Tohan in their expansion into the West.”

“We should never make such an alliance,” Shigeru said immediately. “If the Tohan move into the West, they will encircle us completely. Next, they will absorb what’s left of the Middle Country. The Seishuu are our defense against that.”

“Iida plans to deal with the Seishuu-by marriage if possible and, if not, by war.” Masahiro laughed as if with pleasure at the prospect.

“Who in the West threatens war against him? He imagines enemies everywhere!”

“You have been ill. You are not completely informed about recent events,” Shoichi replied blandly.

“Lord Shigeru should think about marrying again,” Masahiro remarked, apparently changing the subject. “Since you have retired from the political stage, you should enjoy your simple life to the full. Let us find you a wife.”

“I have no desire to marry again,” Shigeru replied.

“My brother is right, though,” Shoichi said. “You must enjoy life and regain your health. Take a trip, look at some mountain scenery, visit a shrine, collect some more ancient tales.” He smiled at his brother, and Shigeru saw their mockery.